Waiting In The Wings
by Iamthechosenone13
Summary: Sequel to 'Unspoken'. When Sherlock returns home to find John gone, leaving only a note in his wake, how will he react? Can Sherlock forget about John? Oneshot. Johnlock. Please, don't like, don't read!


**Hello again! SO. I had a few people ask in the reviews for Unspoken and in my private messages, that they would like to see a sequel to Unspoken. So that it what is I have brought you! I, personally, didn't want to write a sequel for it. But, I figured it would be nice to have the option. I worked hard on this, so I hope you like it. **

**x**

Waiting In The Wings

Sherlock was growing increasingly irritated. How these insufferable officers managed to hold down their jobs was a mystery to him. Sherlock had only been on the case for 5 minutes and had already worked out the solution.

"Lestrade, please tell me this is some sort of joke. How can you not have noticed? It is positively transparent." He snapped.

By the confused expression on Lestrade's face, Sherlock knew that he hadn't a clue.

"Look. It's obvious. You can clearly see by the tan line on the ring finger of her left hand that she wore a wedding ring. Either she has simply not put it on, or she is no longer married. The purse that you dug out of her handbag has a picture of two children in it. You can see the arm of a man around one of the children's shoulder, so obviously he has been cut out of the picture. If he had died, he would still be there. Just by looking at this woman, I can tell you she has a new lover. She's wearing a brand new dress, along with an expensive necklace. She can't have bought the necklace herself, the dress was from an inexpensive high street shop. The lack of cash in her wallet is also an indicator that she is not particularly well off, as does her handbag. Again, cheap. So who would buy her such a necklace? A diamond necklace, of this design and cut? Can only really be a lover. It's unlikely a family member would buy such an expensive item of jewellery. Do you think you have enough intelligence to work out the rest? I'm tired of explaining."

Sherlock turned around to face D.I Lestrade, sighing heavily.

"Are you hinting at the ex-husband?" Lestrade asked, bewildered.

"And light finally dawns." Sherlock replied, sarcastically. "Of course it was the ex-husband. She took his kids away from him, she won't let him see them, and he was still in love with her. He heard she had taken a new lover and took his revenge. Obviously a mentally unstable individual. I wouldn't be surprised if he attempts to murder her new lover as well. Best track him down and lock him up, Inspector. If you'll excuse me, I have better things to be doing."

And with that, Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away from the crime scene, flagging down a nearby cab.

Once seated in the back of the car, Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone to send a text to John.

**Case was abysmal. Solved it already. I will require coffee after such idiocy. Black, two sugars, in case you need reminding. I'm on my way back in a cab. –SH.**

Meanwhile, across London, John Watson was sat in the back of his own taxi cab. Hearing a text come through, he glanced at the screen and his heart sank. Sherlock. He opened it, afraid of what he might read. He almost cried when he had. Sherlock hadn't discovered his note yet. It took all of his willpower to not reply to the text. He didn't want to leave Sherlock and Baker Street, but he felt had no other option. He knew it was all his fault though. Only an idiot would fall in love with Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock's cab drew up outside 221B, Sherlock practically threw the money at the cabbie and got out. He thundered up the stairs, eager to sit down with his coffee. He opened the door and began to shed his coat and scarf, as usual, hanging them up on the door. He realised it was far too quiet in the flat. Usually John called out some sort of greeting from whatever room he was in.

"John?"

No answer. He spun around, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. It was then that he saw it. The piece of paper, pinned to the wall with his knife.

He strode over and plucked the paper from the wall, sticking the knife into the wood of the mantelpiece instead.

He slumped down in his armchair and began to read.

_Sherlock,_

_How is it, it always seems to be the same situation that tears people apart? I'm surprised we made it this far actually. But unfortunately, I don't think things will ever change, and that is what brought me to make my decision. And I suppose, the things we never say are better often left alone anyway. I'm sorry that I have done this without saying a proper goodbye, but it's for the best. For the both of us. But I have fond memories of our time spent together, ones that I will treasure always._

_The truth is, I've come to realise that nothing I do will ever be enough for you. You don't understand things like this. You don't understand how, if you're hurting, I will do whatever I can to make it stop. You can't make sense of emotion. I know that now._

_Please, don't contact me. Not for a long while at least. I want to try and forget about you as much as I possibly can. And I won't come back Sherlock. I won't change my mind. Just let me go. I think I would rather be lonely than be by your side. It hurts too much._

_Thank you for everything Sherlock. Have a brilliant life._

_John_

Sherlock sat in absolute stillness, letting the wave of shock engulf him. John. John was gone.

Sherlock knew what John had been trying to say to him. He just hadn't been able to get the words out, even in a letter.

For the first time in ages, Sherlock felt emotional. One emotion after the other was crashing down on him. Hurt. Sadness. Anger. But most of all, Sherlock felt betrayed. John was supposed to be his friend. Friends don't just up and leave, without a single word of warning. Deep down, Sherlock knew John was probably a mess right now, but he just couldn't fathom why he would do such a thing.

Ignoring John's plea of 'no contact', Sherlock pulled his phone out from his jacket pocket and composed a text to John.

**John. Why would you do this? Come home. –SH.**

Sherlock knew he was unlikely to get a reply immediately. But, if he bombarded John with text after text, he was sure to reply wasn't he?

To his great surprise, his reply came almost instantly.

**You know why. I won't answer if you text again. I asked for no contact, Sherlock. Can't you stop being selfish? Just for once? I'm not coming back, and nothing you say will change my mind. –JW**

Sherlock was going to reply, with some sort of sarcastic or hurtful remark. But he didn't. He found himself deep in thought instead. Throwing his phone onto the floor, he collapsed onto the sofa, lying on his back, hands beneath his head. He opened up his mind palace, running through every room, until he found the one he was searching for. John's Room.

Sherlock, like everybody, had secrets. His best kept one was not shocking or scandalous. It was simply, to him, embarrassing. And extremely private and compromising. In his mind, anyway. Sherlock's secret was this. He had a whole room in his mind palace filled with John. All the cases they had been on together, time spent together. Even silly things like how John liked his tea or typed with one finger when he was on the laptop. John had never known this of course. Only Sherlock knew of its existence.

He began to sort through his time with John. The first time they had met, in the lab at St. Bart's, John still under the impression he needed the stupid cane of his, followed by all of the cases solved together. One thing that haunted his memories of John had been his appearance when Sherlock had returned after 'The Fall'. Sherlock had never seen John so wrecked. He hurried on past that memory, not wanting to linger. He sped on, sorting through hundreds of memories, all swimming around in his head.

John had finally made it to his destination. Molly Hooper's house. He had nowhere to stay at the moment, so was taking advantage of Molly's hospitality. She was at work at the moment, but she had texted him, telling him the spare key was taped to the underside of her bin lid.

Unlocking the door, John dragged his suitcases into the hallway. He took them upstairs to find that Molly had put a note on the door that was to be his room. He heaved his suitcases through his new bedroom door, kicking it shut behind him. He dropped the cases onto the floor and slid down to the floor, back pressed against the wood of the door. He sat with his knees tucked under his chin, letting the silent tears dribble down his cheeks.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, and shot his gaze toward the clock. It had been an hour since he had returned home from his case. He had never felt like this before. He felt… hollow. That was the only way he could describe it. The flat was so still, so silent. Knowing that John would never come back here was making him feel incredibly strange. The last time he had felt sadness properly had been when he was a young child.

Sherlock cursed himself. This was why he had sworn he would cut himself off from emotions. Swore he would never feel again. He had made the mistake of trusting a supposed 'friend' many years ago, only to have himself torn to shreds. He had gotten over it eventually, of course. But he vowed, from that day on, he would never be a subject to emotion again.

Sherlock shook his head quickly, in an attempt to pull himself together. He sat up quickly, the room spinning. He made his way to the kitchen to make his coffee himself. As he spooned the two sugars into his mug, a thought struck. John would come back after a few days. Of course he would. He had never been able to spend more than a few days away from the flat. Of course he would come crawling back.

Sherlock smiled to himself at the thought. He certainly wasn't going to be the one rushing to find John, begging him to come back. No. He would wait. For John was sure to come back.

The next morning, John woke with a stretch and a groan. He hadn't slept well at all. He never slept well unless he was sleeping in his own bed, he never seemed to be able to settle otherwise. The only place John wanted to be at that moment was 221B. It was his home. He wanted to be in his room, in his own bed. He wanted to hear Sherlock pacing downstairs in the living room, or waking up to the sounds of the violin or equipment clattering. It had been far too quiet during the night at Molly's. It had gotten to the point where Sherlock's pacing had actually soothed him to sleep, rather than keeping him awake. He wanted to go home. But he knew he couldn't, he needed distance. He would find a place of his own and try to forget about Sherlock. It was better that way, for them both. Fighting back tears, he pulled himself out of bed. He was going to go out into town for breakfast, get some fresh air. That was all he needed.

Sherlock felt mildly relieved as sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains. Of course, he hadn't slept a wink. He hadn't eaten anything, the only sustenance he had received was from cup after cup of coffee. He had gone to John's room last night to find his wardrobe bare and his desk cleared. The only thing that remained sitting on the desk was a framed photograph. Sherlock had padded across the room to pick it up. What he saw affected him probably more than it should have. It was a framed photograph of himself and John. It had been taken by those men at The Cross Keys on Dartmoor that time. They had wanted a photograph of the two of them to put up on the pubs corkboard. They had given them a copy of the photo just before they left. They were standing in front of the door to the pub, John had his arm draped around Sherlock's shoulders, fingers gripping onto the fabric of his coat. There was a small smile playing on John's lips and he looked relaxed. Sherlock himself had an awkward smile on his own face, after being snapped at by John to perk up and smile for the photo. Sherlock's grip on the photo frame tightened. He made his way over to John's neatly made bed and perched on the edge, setting the photo frame on the bedside table. He didn't move from that spot all night. He just sat there, staring at the photograph.

As John entered the restaurant, the smell of greasy bacon and sausages sizzling in their pan turned his stomach. The smell was making him feel physically sick. He didn't want to eat anything, not at all, but he knew he needed to. He couldn't deny himself nutrition, it would just make him feel worse. Instead of the full English he had first thought about ordering, he just had fried tomatoes on toast and a Danish pastry. He couldn't stomach the grease of a full fry up. After paying his bill, he got up to leave the restaurant. He had to go hunting for a new job relatively soon. Hopefully, he would be able to hold it down longer than his job at the surgery.

As Sherlock sipped at yet another cup of coffee, a thought struck. John had nowhere to go. Nobody to stay with. So where was he? He sat back in his chair, taking large gulps of his coffee , as if to try and stimulate his mind with it. He sorted through all of the people John knew, and only one person jumped out at him. Molly. Sherlock was 99% sure that John would be staying with Molly. He lunged for his mobile, spilling the remainder of his coffee all down his front in the process.

**Molly. I know he's with you. Make him come home. -SH**

He pulled the soiled pyjama shirt over his head and threw it on the floor in rage. His response was almost instantaneous.

**I can't make him do anything Sherlock. If you want him to come home, you'll have to sort this out yourself. I can't do it for you. Molly x**

Sherlock grit his teeth in frustration. He wasn't going to go trailing after John, begging him to come back. He would simply wait.

The week dragged past, for both Sherlock and John. Sherlock spent all of his time in the flat, unwashed and undressed, living on coffee, cigarettes and toast. While John had tried his best to keep busy, going out job hunting and doing the shopping for Molly, among other outings that were only made to distract him.

It was on the Sunday, exactly a week since John left, that Sherlock cracked. It finally dawned on him that perhaps, this time, John was serious. He wasn't coming back. Well, if John wouldn't come back to him, Sherlock would have to go to John. He didn't even bother to run upstairs and change his clothes, he left 221B wearing his pyjamas and blue dressing gown. He didn't even stop to put anything on his feet. He stood on the kerb outside of 221B and hailed a cab, shouting Molly's address at the cabbie.

"Molly? I'm going to the park alright? Need some air. I'll be back soon" John called up the stairs to Molly.

"Okay, I may be gone by the time you get back. I'm meeting a friend for coffee." She replied

"Alright, no worries. See you later."

John pulled on his coat and left, shutting the door behind him. He decided to walk to the park, seeing as it wasn't too far from Molly's house. He would be glad of the extra air. He couldn't stay indoors for long periods of time, he just felt as if he were suffocating.

As Sherlock waited for the cab to reach Molly's house, he realised just how much of a state he was in. His hair was unwashed and greasy and he most likely stunk to high heaven. The only sort of hygiene he had been sticking to was washing his hands after the toilet and brushing his teeth.

Finally, the cab arrived at Molly's, just as she was stepping out of the front door and locking it behind her.

"Molly! I need to speak with John. Let me in." Sherlock said, seeing Molly's eyes widen in surprise.

"Um.. well, he's not here Sherlock. He left to go to the park not long ago. Sherlock… you look awful, are you alright?"

"Do I look alright!" he snapped. "I must go, I need to find to John."

And with that, Sherlock turned and began to run. He needed to find John as quickly as possible, getting another taxi would waste time, running was far quicker.

John was enjoying his walk. The morning sun filtered down through the leaves on the trees, dappling the path with shadow. He took a deep breath, the fresh spring air perking him up. He glanced across the grass to see two people walking, hand in hand. He looked away quickly, continuing to walk. Suddenly, a loud shout from behind him disrupted the peace. John would know that voice anywhere.

He spun around dazedly, to see Sherlock running towards him. He was wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, running down the path with nothing whatsoever on his feet. Sherlock caught up within minutes of John stopping, and skidded to a halt in front of him.

"Sh-Sherlock? What are you doing here? What do you want?" John asked.

Sherlock was in a bad way. He could see that. His hair was greasy and dirty, there were dark circles under his eyes and he stunk of cigarettes. It looked like Sherlock hadn't slept at all since he had left, and judging by the waxiness of his skin, hadn't seen the light of day either. John felt the guilt wash over him as he took in Sherlock's appearance.

"I want you to come home, John. The flat isn't the same without you and nor am I." Sherlock said simply.

John took a deep breath in before answering. "I can't come back Sherlock. Things would just… things are different."

"And by different, I'm assuming you mean the fact that you are in love with me." Sherlock said, looking right into John's eyes as he spoke.

"Well… yes. I can't be around you anymore Sherlock. It's not like it used to be, I love you and you don't love me. Do you know how awkward that is? How bad it makes me feel! It's alright for you, you don't feel! Why can't you think of others, for once in your life?" John found himself shouting at Sherlock, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could think.

He instantly regretted it. Sherlock's face broke his heart all over again. He looked as if John had just slapped him, utterly shocked and… upset.

"How dare you John Watson. I can't believe I ever trusted you. If I had never made that mistake, I wouldn't be in this mess now. And neither would you." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper. After he had spoken, he turned to go.

"Sherlock, wait. Please. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things. I just didn't think." John said.

Sherlock turned to face him again, his face alight with anger.

"That's just your problem! You never think! You don't know the reason behind me cutting myself off from my emotions! You don't know why I keep them carefully controlled, how I never let my head become ruled by feelings!"

John had never seen Sherlock lose control like this. Never. Sherlock had wound his fingers through his filthy curls in irritation, looking as if her were going to tear them out.

John shifted on the spot, looking into Sherlock's eyes that were glowing with fury.

"Why… what did happen to make you choose to do that? Tell me, and then I'll understand." He probed.

"You think I would tell you? I never speak about it. To anybody." Sherlock confessed.

"Sherlock… if you're worried about what I might think of you, there's no need. I just want to know so that I can understand. But I won't force you." John said.

John could see Sherlock's hesitation. He was chewing on his full bottom lip, warring with himself. Finally, he spoke.

"I will tell you as much as I feel able and necessary. I was twelve years old at the time. I had never had a proper friend, all of the other children at my school thought me a freak, much like now really."

He paused, a hand reaching around to grip the back of his neck.

"It was after the Easter holidays that the new boy arrived. He was tall for his age, skinny and very clever, much like myself. He had a huge mop of ginger hair and he wore glasses. His name was Arthur. Nobody ever spoke to him, because he was labelled 'weird'. So naturally, a bond formed between us. Before long, we were best friends. We were each other's shadow."

Sherlock paused again, taking a deep breath in.

"Being best friends, we told each other practically everything. I made the mistake of confiding in him. I told him all about my dreams to become a detective and to study dead bodies. We talked about everything. One of his favourite subjects was the opposite sex. He would constantly make noises of approval if a 'good looking' girl passed us in the corridors. He was talking about females once when we were in the library, asking me if I had ever had a girlfriend. I of course, told him the truth. No I had not, and I wasn't really interested in girls."

John's ears pricked up at that moment. Was Sherlock trying to confess that he was gay? He had never been upfront about his sexuality before.

"I thought he understood what I meant by that. But obviously not. By the time the following morning, the whole school was under the impression that Sherlock Holmes was gay. Arthur told me he didn't want to be my friend anymore, not if I were a 'poofter'. Nobody talked to me, at all. The girls weren't as bad. But if I had to be seated next to a male in a lesson, they would edge away from me, calling me all the names under the sun. It upset me a lot at first. It was only then that I realised that Mycroft had been right all along. He had been telling me for most of my years that 'caring was not an advantage'. Since then, I have been almost void of all emotion."

Silence followed Sherlock's confession. John cleared his throat, feeling awkward. Tears were threatening, and he was doing his best to hold them back. He knew what he wanted to do… but would Sherlock let him? There was only one way to find out.

John stepped closer to Sherlock, and before the dark haired detective could utter a syllable, John had wrapped his arms around Sherlock's frail body and pulled him close. He buried his face into his chest, inhaling his scent. Sherlock had moved an inch, just stood frozen to the spot.

"Thank you Sherlock. Thank you for trusting and confiding in me." John said against Sherlock's chest. A jolt of surprise shocked his body when he felt Sherlock's careful arms around his back. It was then that John couldn't hold the tears inside any longer. They dribbled down his cheeks and onto Sherlock's pyjamas.

"I'm… so sorry Sherlock." He sniffed. John had never thought for one minute that Sherlock might need him. But it seemed, for whatever reason, that he did. He needed John.

"It's alright John." Sherlock said, still not fully allowing himself to return John's hug.

John nuzzled ever closer at Sherlock's words, the tears still flowing. "I don't understand Sherlock. Why do you need me so much?" John asked through his tears.

"John… what is knowledge without reasoning? What is intellect without wisdom? A great mind cannot be great without its inspiration. You are my inspiration, John... in any case, somebody needs to get the milk in."

At this emotional outburst from Sherlock, John couldn't help but begin to sob. He tightened his grip on Sherlock and bawled into his chest.

Sherlock didn't really know what to do. He wasn't any good at comforting anybody. But he tried. He tightened his hold on John a fraction and placed a hand onto the back of his head as he cried.

"I- I'm s-so sorry Sh- Sherlock." John managed to stutter out between his sobs.

"It's alright John. It's all fine." Sherlock replied. He hesitated before asking the burning question. "Will you be returning to Baker Street with me?" he asked.

John lifted his head from Sherlock's chest to look into his eyes. He knew his own eyes must be red raw. He wiped the tears away hastily, before speaking.

"Of course." He paused, wondering how best to get the next set of words out. "But… as what Sherlock?"

Sherlock deflated a little at John's question. He had known this was coming of course.

"As my friend John. My best friend. As you always will be." Sherlock answered, holding John's gaze as he spoke.

John's heart ached at his words. Sherlock had just confirmed what he already knew. Sherlock had never harboured feelings for him, and he never would. John was about 80% sure this was because Sherlock was asexual. He knew this would hurt him, living in such close proximity to Sherlock. But Sherlock needed him, and as long as Sherlock needed him, he would be there. Always there, waiting in the wings, to be whatever Sherlock wanted him to be.

John wormed his way back into Sherlock's arms.

"Can I say it? Just the once. Just so I don't have to keep held up inside for God knows how long." He asked.

Sherlock was surprised at John's question. He felt he couldn't exactly say no. John may not come back otherwise.

"Yes." He said simply, awaiting John's next words.

John smiled. "Thank you."

John tilted his head up and pressed one small kiss onto Sherlock's long, muscled neck, whilst wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled slightly at John's words. Although he wasn't interested in a relationship, truth be told, he loved the attention.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock spoke.

"Hungry?" He asked.

John pulled himself out of Sherlock's rigid arms and grinned up at him.

"Starving."

**So there you have it! I know it's not what most of you wanted to see, but I really wanted to write a story of unrequited love. Not only that, I wanted a realistic romance. Sherlock is not interested in romantic relationships, so I wanted to play around with that It doesn't mean I will never write a proper Johnlock though….**

**I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!**

**x**


End file.
